The loose folds did little to hide the sharp lines of his body—the narrow waist, the long, powerful legs, the way every step made the muscles in his thighs flex beneath the silk like water over stone.Above the waist, he wore nothing.And what a sight his body was—carved, almost unnaturally so. He stepped into the courtyard like a vision conjured from heat and longing.Every breath in the room stilled.His salwar pants hung low on his hips, the soft, fine fabric swaying with each silent footfall. Gay sex And his eyes—gods—hazel, but not soft. Not the heavy, brutish muscle of a warrior, but something sculpted, honed—made to be looked at, touched, worshipped. His hands—those hands—were large, elegant, capable. Like seduction wrapped in flesh and gold. And impossible to look away from.But it was his face—his face—that undid me.High cheekbones, cut with shadow. A jawline so sharp it might draw blood. Loose strands fell across his brow, brushing those deep, expressive brows—arched just slightly, knowingly. Perhaps both.His skin was a wonder—deep gold, glowing with the warmth of desert sun. Lips full and devastating, their natural curve hinting at sin even when expressionless. And impossible to look away from.But it was his face—his face—that undid me.High cheekbones, cut with shadow.
